Dear Diary, this house has gone completely to the pack! The past two days have been unenviable. I have retired to my room where some semblance of order and cohesion reign. Not so elsewhere!
Niece is beside herself; though why all the fuss and bother I really don't know. The visitors are family. That much was explained within the first two hours of their arrival. Tea was made, we all sat in the kitchen. I wasn't invited, nor was I told to go to my room, and having been brought up not to ask nosey questions, I did refrain.
Niece didn't make any effort to fill in the gaps; that was extraordinary. Usually Niece is a chatterbox, and delights in colouring in the picture minutely. She can tell anyone who asks; anyone who doesn't ask but looks remotely curious, who the person is visiting Number 10, half way down the block. She knows where everyone in the neighbourhood works, what they do, how many children they have, and what their pet is plus what it is called. She speaks knowledgably about everything. [I know she has a bookcase in the corner of the dining room that overflows with reference books; encyclopaedias, dictionaries, thesaurus, atlases, and enough gardening books to start a bookstore.] Begin a conversation, and within five sentences Niece butts in correcting grammar, or adding her two-dollar's worth to the moment. These habits of hers I have grown used to, which is not to say I approve. No Dear Diary, there are times when one should keep one's mouth shut ... and shut tight.
We sat around the table, the red checkered cloth left on after breakfast had a splotch of marmalade near where the jam dish sat, there was a dribble of tea spilled from pouring a cuppa, and toast crumbs added a certain texture to the surface of the cloth. Of course they were more noticeable on the white squares; the red tends to hide a lot of sins. Niece forgot to offer biscuits. I, on the other hand, seeing the occasion needed more than just tea, brought out the tin of shortbread that Niece baked yesterday, placed it on a rather pretty plate, the one with the apricot coloured roses in the corners, before setting it on the middle of the table. I even swept, inconspicuously, the worst of the toast crumbs into my hand and tossed them out the back door for the birds.
These visitors had little conversation. The woman sat and stared at Niece, almost marvelling at some unknown fact that I was not yet privy to. Her male companion after mumbling a greeting, kept aloof. Niece gabbled on about nothing, while that man of hers looked gobsmacked ... gobsmacked is not a word I normally have in my vocabulary; I consider it slightly vulgar, but Dear Diary there is no other word for his expression. His lower jaw had dropped at least a quarter of an inch; his lips hung limp, and his eyes had that glazed look; the look he often has on a Sunday morning after a night watching football with his mates.
Finally Dear Diary, an explanation was made. This woman, Karen was her name, was actually Niece's daughter! I did not know I had a grand niece! Nor did I have an inkling that Niece had given birth, assuming that her lack of children in this marriage meant she, or they, were unable to have children. To be honest I always felt rather sad about that fact, but deigned to say anything in fear of making Niece upset. Karen was born when Niece was only 18 years old ... a flash romance with a chap who furthered his education at University, left town and never returned. Niece had not told her husband of this interlude; it was no wonder his jaw dropped! As Karen is marrying Jake she decided to search for her natural mother. What a to do Dear Diary, the household is no longer serene. So many secrets!
Niece is beside herself; though why all the fuss and bother I really don't know. The visitors are family. That much was explained within the first two hours of their arrival. Tea was made, we all sat in the kitchen. I wasn't invited, nor was I told to go to my room, and having been brought up not to ask nosey questions, I did refrain.
Niece didn't make any effort to fill in the gaps; that was extraordinary. Usually Niece is a chatterbox, and delights in colouring in the picture minutely. She can tell anyone who asks; anyone who doesn't ask but looks remotely curious, who the person is visiting Number 10, half way down the block. She knows where everyone in the neighbourhood works, what they do, how many children they have, and what their pet is plus what it is called. She speaks knowledgably about everything. [I know she has a bookcase in the corner of the dining room that overflows with reference books; encyclopaedias, dictionaries, thesaurus, atlases, and enough gardening books to start a bookstore.] Begin a conversation, and within five sentences Niece butts in correcting grammar, or adding her two-dollar's worth to the moment. These habits of hers I have grown used to, which is not to say I approve. No Dear Diary, there are times when one should keep one's mouth shut ... and shut tight.
We sat around the table, the red checkered cloth left on after breakfast had a splotch of marmalade near where the jam dish sat, there was a dribble of tea spilled from pouring a cuppa, and toast crumbs added a certain texture to the surface of the cloth. Of course they were more noticeable on the white squares; the red tends to hide a lot of sins. Niece forgot to offer biscuits. I, on the other hand, seeing the occasion needed more than just tea, brought out the tin of shortbread that Niece baked yesterday, placed it on a rather pretty plate, the one with the apricot coloured roses in the corners, before setting it on the middle of the table. I even swept, inconspicuously, the worst of the toast crumbs into my hand and tossed them out the back door for the birds.
These visitors had little conversation. The woman sat and stared at Niece, almost marvelling at some unknown fact that I was not yet privy to. Her male companion after mumbling a greeting, kept aloof. Niece gabbled on about nothing, while that man of hers looked gobsmacked ... gobsmacked is not a word I normally have in my vocabulary; I consider it slightly vulgar, but Dear Diary there is no other word for his expression. His lower jaw had dropped at least a quarter of an inch; his lips hung limp, and his eyes had that glazed look; the look he often has on a Sunday morning after a night watching football with his mates.
Finally Dear Diary, an explanation was made. This woman, Karen was her name, was actually Niece's daughter! I did not know I had a grand niece! Nor did I have an inkling that Niece had given birth, assuming that her lack of children in this marriage meant she, or they, were unable to have children. To be honest I always felt rather sad about that fact, but deigned to say anything in fear of making Niece upset. Karen was born when Niece was only 18 years old ... a flash romance with a chap who furthered his education at University, left town and never returned. Niece had not told her husband of this interlude; it was no wonder his jaw dropped! As Karen is marrying Jake she decided to search for her natural mother. What a to do Dear Diary, the household is no longer serene. So many secrets!
2 comments:
I am so enjoying reading Aunt Alices Secret Diary and now I find that she has a grand niece with my name. I am eagerly waiting her next entry.
Hi Karen ... I am so pleased you enjoy Aunt Alice. I must admit that when I chose Karen for the name of the latest 'player' in this story, I didn't specifically think of any person ... I wanted a name that would infer a woman between the ages of 20 and 40. Thank you for reading it! :)
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